Say Something
by ravenscaronff
Summary: S3 fix-it fic because in my headcanon, Sherlock and John belong together and no incarnation of Mary Morstan can keep them apart. Not if Mycroft has anything to say about it. Mature readers only, please!


**Say Something**

_Say Something – James__  
You're as tight as a hunter's trap  
Hidden well, what are you concealing  
Poker face, carved in stone  
Amongst friends, but all alone  
Why do you hide_

_Say something, say something, anything_  
_I've shown you everything_  
_Give me a sign_  
_Say something, say something, anything_  
_Your silence is deafening_  
_Pay me in kind_

* * *

The minister's avuncular voice rang out in the quiet church as he addressed the small gathering of guests.

'Should anyone present know of any reason that this couple should not be joined in holy matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace.'

Delighted friends and colleagues and a disingenuously cheery best man watched as Dr. John Hamish Watson and Mary Morstan, the groom- and bride-to-be beamed at each other, oblivious of their guests and of said best man whose eyes glistened with what an uninformed onlooker might easily mistake for joy at the promise of his flatmate's forthcoming domestic bliss. In his gray eyes brewed a wet lonely storm and his smile dissipated into a sad and drawn grimace when he thought no one was watching.

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade felt a buzz in his jacket and pulled out his phone.

_How is he? – MH  
_  
_Not good. – GL_

_Do it. – MH_

Lestrade slipped his phone back into his jacket pocket. He allowed himself a brief smile.

'Ladies and gentlemen!' he called out in his most authoritative DI voice. 'NSY has just received a bomb threat. We have been informed that there is a bomb planted somewhere in this church. I'm afraid we have to cut today's ceremony short and evacuate the church NOW! Right now! Please make your way to the nearest exit. Go, go, go!'

'Lestrade, what the FUCK is happening!' John shouted. 'Sorry, Father', he apologised to the dumbstruck minister.

'I'm sorry John, but safety comes first. You're just going to have to reschedule. I'm really sorry, but for now you and Mary need to get out of here. Now! Everyone! Out. Get out!'

John grabbed Sherlock's arms and shook him. 'Is this something to do with you? Is it? It must be!'

'Why do you automatically assume it has something to do with me?' Sherlock was shocked and more than a little upset at John's unfair accusation.

'Why would _anyone_ plant a bomb in a church with just 20 people? I'm John Watson. I'm a low-profile GP in a low-profile clinic, marrying my low-profile fiancée. It has to be one of _your_ innumerable enemies! Goddammit, Sherlock! Goddammit! Sorry, Father. Shit. I can't believe this is happening. Shit. Sorry, I'm sorry, alright? But _really_, foul language is the least of my concerns now. Fuck. Sorry!'

Sherlock Holmes ignored John in favour of watching Lestrade. The consulting detective shrewdly deduced that Lestrade exhibited none of the physical signs of genuine stress. His fearful expression did not reach his eyes which, Sherlock observed, held excitement and most unexpectedly, mischief.

Their eyes met briefly and the DI read '_What__ are you doing?'_ in Sherlock's gaze and replied with a defiant cocked eyebrow that said _'Are you really going to deduce me __now__?'_

Their silent challenge notwithstanding, the DI played the role of concerned protector of the public and Sherlock played the role of terrified best man to perfection and both men dashed out of the church with the other guests and were greeted by sirens and screeching brakes announcing the arrival of the police and bomb disposal squad.

Inquisitive guests attempted to linger on the church grounds but were summarily shooed away by a snippy Sergeant Donovan. The bride and groom and their inner circle - Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, Molly Hooper and Mike Stamford - were driven to 221B Baker Street by an animated Lestrade. The next few hours at Baker Street passed in stupefied silence, broken only by infrequent updates from Lestrade on the bomb squad's progress, essentially reporting that their sweep of the church had not turned up anything. A splinter terrorist cell had claimed responsibility for the incident. Sherlock had taken down the parent organisation during his two-year absence from London after he jumped to his apparent death from the roof of St. Bart's.

'It's a sign, John. It's an omen.'

'No, it's not, Mary. Stop imagining things. Being Sherlock's friend comes with such perils. Bombs, guns, knives, drug lords. _Terrorists!_ I'm inured to it. Thankfully, you won't have to be. Neither of us has to anymore. I'm done with this bullshit.'

John couldn't see that the face of his tall friend at the window blanched at his words and his eyes fluttered as he bit his lips. Sherlock had known that John's engagement to Mary Morstan meant the end of the one relationship for which he would give (and almost had given) his life. His friendship with John would die of slow neglect. His love for John would remain unspoken. He would forever hold his peace.

And he would die by inches every day, alone. Alone is what he had. Alone is what protected him.

When Sherlock was finally alone in the flat later that evening, he pulled out his phone.

_Was it you? –SH_

But of course. –MH

You need to stop interfering. –SH

And you need to tell him, brother. –MH

_Your little stunt changed nothing. It only delayed the inevitable. –SH_

Nothing is inevitable. You know what you must do. Now do it. –MH

Sherlock slipped his phone back into the pocket of his blue, silk robe and sighed. He picked up his violin and closed his eyes as his fingers provoked a dolorous melody of pain from his strings. The four years since he first met John flashed before his eyes. He could see that he was clearly two different people.

Sherlock-before-John was an addict (cocaine), a mordant critic of human behaviour, a high-functioning sociopath for whom logic and science superseded every other aspect of existence. People meant little to Sherlock-before-John.

Sherlock-with-John was still a bit of an addict (nicotine patches, not cocaine), still a critic of human behaviour but mellowed, still a high-functioning sociopath but one for whom friendship and love now occupied an equal position alongside logic and science. People in general meant nothing to Sherlock-with-John but a few now did – Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Lestrade, Mycroft and John. John quite simply meant more to Sherlock than Sherlock.

With John's engagement Sherlock prepared to assume his role of Sherlock-after-John which, his friends feared, looked scarily like Sherlock-before-John.

His eyes remained closed as he swayed to the weeping strains of the lament he was instinctively composing. This was his dirge to his relationship with his best friend - the only man, the only person, he had ever loved. He loved John as a friend and had wanted to love him as a lover and soul mate. When his eyes flew open at the sickening sound of a sob, his brow furrowed as he looked around to determine the origin of the offensive sniveling. The sight of his own chest and stomach heaving and jerking seemed unusual; the fluttering in his chest was mildly alarming and he raised his hands to his face, blinking with confusion and trepidation when his fingers came away wet. When had Sherlock Holmes become ordinary? When had Sherlock Holmes begun to cry? He was being ludicrous. Surely this was a chemical reaction to unfamiliar thought patterns – sentiment and a sense of loss – and he would call on science and logic to rationally deconstruct this specious belief. This was Dartmoor all over again. He could not believe his senses then and he would not now.

'Mourning the destruction of your heart, brother?' a glib voice said, bringing his musings to a screeching halt.

'Mycroft', he hissed through clenched teeth. 'What are you doing here?'

'I am concerned about you, Sherlock. I warned you not to get involved.'

'I am _not_ involved. Please leave now. Your presence irks me. Always has.'

'Sherlock', the older brother continued, ignoring his sibling's disdain. 'You have always _seen_. And yet you are now blind. Blind to your own _feelings_', Mycroft said, his face twisting into a sneer of distaste on the last word.

'I don't _do_ feelings, Mycroft. Now, was there anything in particular you wished to discuss? I would hate to keep you from your machinations for world domination.'

'You know I don't say this lightly, brother mine. The first step to fixing a problem is acknowledging there is one', Mycroft quirked an eyebrow. 'At least that's what the fat woman on the telly said last night.'

'The only _problem_ I have right now is that this conversation is making me nauseous. Does the point you are trying to make have an estimated time of arrival?'

'You are in love with John Watson.'

Sherlock barked a harsh laugh. 'Mycroft, are you hallucinating? Or did you just overdose on cake and is this your upset stomach talking? I am not _in love_ with John.'

'Aren't you, brother? Let's examine the evidence, shall we?'

'Has it been that long since you exercised your gray cells that you need to deduce me?'

'I live among goldfish, Sherlock. What do you think?'

'Alright, I'll indulge you. Examine away.'

'You would die for John.'

'What of it?'

'You changed for him.'

'I did not. I changed over the passage of time.'

'We both know you changed for him. You don't like Mary.'

'John likes her. Therefore, I like her.'

'That is not the same as genuinely liking her. You _tolerate_ her for John's sake.'

'Irrelevant. Neither of them is going feature in my life once they get married. John was clear on that point.'

'You deduced that she is a liar.'

'Once more, irrelevant. She makes John happy. They will get married and John will be happy.'

'And that is tearing you apart.'

'You're off your game, brother. Why would John's happiness tear me apart?'

'Because you want John to be happy with _you_.'

Sherlock flinched and his face contorted into a pained grimace. Mycroft's words were knives carving a wound in his side.

'I heard you play your violin just now. It was funereal.'

'It was a virtuoso composition that your dull interactions with goldfish have rendered you incapable of appreciating.'

'Sherlock. Brother. You always resort to sarcasm when you are laid bare. Don't shut yourself to your feelings. Not now.'

'Mycroft. Brother. You're getting soft as you age.'

'I am concerned about you.'

'Oh, please. It is not like you to be so sickeningly sweet.'

'I'm serious, Sherlock. I have never seen you as happy as you are with John. There is a light in you, a joy. You positively vibrate with a love of life when you're around John. He makes you the man you were meant to be.'

Mycroft stood up to join Sherlock at the window. They looked at each other, the pregnant silence deafening in the quiet flat.

'Why did you interrupt the wedding?'

'You're my blood, Sherlock. And contrary to what you believe, I do care about you. More than you know. How could I let the love of your life go without giving you the chance you were unwilling to take?'

'I don't have any chance. I never did.'

'I wouldn't say that. You must tell him and let him decide where his heart belongs.'

'It's pointless.'

'You won't know until you try. Take that step, brother. It might just be the bravest thing you ever do.'

'I love him.'

'I know. You _must_ tell him.'

'He doesn't love me.'

'Maybe you'd best ask him', a third voice interjected.

Two heads snapped around at the sound of that voice and froze on the figure of John H. Watson in the doorway.

'John!'

'Mycroft, I need to speak to Sherlock.'

'Of course, John.'

Mycroft walked towards John and paused in the doorway. He leaned close and spoke in a whisper.

'How long have you been standing here?'

'Long enough.'

'Whatever you decide, be kind, John. Please.'

John nodded curtly and Mycroft descended the steps. When he heard the front door open and then click shut, he turned around to his tall flatmate.

'Sherlock.'

'Hello, John. How are you? How is Mary?' Sherlock asked with unnatural cheerfulness.

'Fuck the pleasantries, Sherlock. What was that about?'

'Not sure what you mean, John. Tea?'

'Tea, Sherlock? What is wrong with you?'

'Nothing! Nothing at all. Why would anything be wrong with me? You don't _have_ to have tea if you don't want tea. You usually take tea at this hour. It was logical to offer to make you tea as you are my guest. You know. You no longer live here. You are, of course, most welcome to make yourself tea. After all, you used to live here and know where everything is. While you're here, where is the egg whisk? I haven't been able to locate it. Did we ever have an egg whisk?'

'You're rambling, Sherlock. Next, you'll ask me if we ever had a pogo stick. What is going on?'

'You really need to be more specific, John. That has always been a problem with your communication. Even in your blog. Too nebulous.'

'Alright. Alright! Did you just tell Mycroft you love me?'

And suddenly Sherlock stilled. He stopped blinking, stopped moving, probably stopped breathing and John began to worry when, after a whole minute, Sherlock still showed no signs of animation.

'Sherlock. Sherlock! Snap out of it!'

'Forgive me.'

'Did you just tell Mycroft you love me?'

'Of course I did. You're my friend.'

'Is that all?'

'Is what all?'

'Am I _just_ your friend?'

'You're my…_best_ friend?'

'Sherlock! Please! This is important! Do you really…_love_ me?'

'Of course, John! You know how I hate repeating myself. You're my friend. And therefore, I do.'

'Greg is your friend. Do you love him?'

'Who's Greg?'

'Lestrade!'

'Not Gavin, then?'

'No! Not Gavin!'

'Oh, that is not good. I've been calling him Gavin since I returned. I must apologise.'

'Sherlock! Do you love Greg?'

'Of course not!'

'Then why do you love me?'

'You're John', Sherlock shrugged and regarded the doctor as he would a mentally deficient penguin. 'We are…we were Sherlock and John. John and Sherlock. And so I love you.'

John's shoulders slumped as he attempted to make sense of what he had just heard.

'Do you love me romantically, Sherlock?'

'I...I don't know.'

'Do you want me? Want my body?'

Sherlock did not answer.

'Sherlock, please. This is important!'

'I want your body.'

'Did it bother you when I went on dates with women?'

'That had to have been obvious to the most oblivious observer.'

'Did it bother you when Mary and I got engaged?'

'I wished I had died when I jumped off that rooftop.' The dispassion in Sherlock's voice was a testament to the unassailable truth of his words.

'Oh, God! Oh god, Sherlock!'

'My feelings are mine alone, John. They need have no impact on your decisions.'

'They are not yours alone, you idiot!'

'I'm afraid I don't understand.'

'You said you were married to your work. That you were flattered by my interest and…'

'I didn't know you then. I panicked.'

'Oh god, oh god!'

'Why is this so important now, John? You have always said you're not gay. And I accepted that. My feelings are my cross to bear.'

'You idiot! Sherlock Holmes, the world's only Consulting Detective who sees through everything and everyone in seconds can be spectacularly ignorant about some things. Indeed, I am _not_ gay!'

'In that case, about _what_ exactly am I spectacularly ignorant?'

'I am _bisexual_, Sherlock.'

'Oh.'

'"Oh" is right. "Oh" is fucking right. I have finally reduced the great Sherlock Holmes to monosyllabic responses.'

'Indeed.'

'Sherlock. Please, this is not the time for prevarication. I _need_ to know. Please.'

'What do you need to know?'

'Do you love me?'

'Yes.'

'Will you say it to me? Will you let me hear it?'

'I love you.'

'Do you want me?'

'I want you.'

'Do you want to be in a relationship with me?'

'Until my last breath.'

'Oh god, Sherlock!'

'I'm sorry. Should I not have said that? On second thought, a simple "Yes" might have sufficed.'

The confused detective's consternation was only compounded when his words were cut off by the press of cool, dry lips to his plump, hot lips. His eyelids were magnetically drawn to each other and his vision went black as he gave himself over to the feeling of John's body pressing against his frame, his doctor's arms pulling him into a tight, clawing embrace and his own arms made their way around John's waist and pulled him impossibly close. The two friends gave voice to their thus-far unspoken love with each kiss and each sigh. Sherlock felt his body tingle with wonder as John's hands roved over his back, pressing into his skin and reaching down to his waist and then further down, to settle on his hips. His hands found their way to John's arse and gently stroked his cheeks and squeezed and kneaded.

'Sherlock! What are you doing!' a shrill female voice rang out in the quiet room.

Sherlock and John abruptly pushed away from each other and turned around to see Mary standing in the middle of the room, her features twisted in sheer horror. Sherlock looked down at John and saw an equally horrified expression, marred by shame, on his face. His jaw clenched. John's loyalties were clear.

'I'm sorry, Mary. I forced myself on John. I am in love with him and the interruption in the wedding gave me one last chance to try and win him. Had you entered a moment later, you would not have seen this because John was pushing me away. I apologize for behaving so dreadfully. Please forgive me. I will consider myself uninvited from your rescheduled wedding.'

'Let's go, John.'

John stumbled behind Mary, not turning around to look at his detective. A few moments later Sherlock heard the door close with a bang.

And once more, Sherlock Holmes was alone. Sherlock Holmes was always alone.

Mary stormed into the flat she shared with John.

'What the hell was going on, John?'

'Not now, Mary. Please. I need some time alone.'

'Time alone for _what_ exactly? We were about to get married when your _best_ _friend's_ enemies decided to plant a bomb in the church. He should come with a fucking warning. This is unbelievable!'

'Mary, please. Sherlock is going through a lot now and I need to be considerate. I shouldn't have left.'

'John, do you hear yourself? Your _male_ friend, your best man, kissed you. He basically laid his cards on the table. He wants you. You left with me. That should tell him you choose me. What consideration could you possibly offer him now? I think things are quite final now.'

'Everything you just said would make perfect sense if it weren't for one little detail.'

'What little detail?'

'Sherlock didn't kiss me. I kissed him.'

'Oh.' Mary slumped onto the sofa, broken.

'I'm sorry, Mary. But that is the truth. He told me he loves me. I kissed him.'

'Do you love him?'

'I do.'

'Enough to leave me?'

'I'm so sorry, Mary. But yes, enough to leave you. Or anyone else I might be with. I have always loved him.'

'I see. I think I have always known I was a poor substitute for the great Sherlock Holmes. If he hadn't faked his own death, you would still be with him and I wouldn't stand a chance.'

'He has always had my heart, Mary. I became aware just today that he loves me. I lost him once already. I cannot lose him again. I just can't. I know this makes me an absolute arsehole but if you could see how much I love Sherlock, you would understand why I must go to him. It's not even a choice anymore.'

'Go, John. Just go. I can't say I understand and right now I am very, very hurt. You betrayed me. I am only glad this happened before we got married. Just- Just stop trying to explain and get out.'

'I'm sorry, Mary', John apologised and tried to touch Mary's shoulder but she brusquely stood up and walked into their…her bedroom. 'Mary, please. I'm sorry. I hope you find it in your heart to forgive me. I will move out tomorrow but I must go to Sherlock now. Please, please forgive me. I wish I hadn't hurt you like this.'

'Please get the _fuck_ out of my flat, John. I want your things out by tomorrow.'

John turned the key in the lock and opened the door to 221B Baker Street. The soft strains of a violin drifted from the flat at the top of the staircase. He stepped onto the bottom stair. It creaked and the violin paused. He ascended the stairs tentatively, breathing hard, trying to think of what he would say to the man he loved and from whom he had turned away to be with his fiancée. Words evaded his tortured mind and then he went blank as he stopped in the doorway to 221B and caught sight of a lonely figure in a robe, turned away from him, head tilted to one side cradling a violin as though it were a precious baby. The arm holding the violin moved and dropped to its side, the head straightened and John saw those shoulders rise and fall with a laboured breath as the fluttering robe betrayed the trembling of the body it covered. The arms moved and placed the violin and bow gently on the armchair.

'Sherlock.'

'Why did you come back?' Sherlock asked, still looking out of the window.

'I heard you have a spare bedroom available for rent and wondered if you wanted a flatmate.'

'I had a flatmate. He left. I don't want another flatmate.'

'Do you want a friend?'

'I had a friend. He also left. I don't want another friend.'

'Do you want a lover?'

'I want a lover.'

'Will you take me as your lover?'

Sherlock's arms closed around himself and his head dropped to his chest.

'Sherlock!' John cried out and ran to his friend to throw his arms around that lanky frame that was shaking with sobs. 'Sherlock, please look at me.'

He pushed his friend around to look at him and hooked his finger under that proud chin to raise his mad detective's head.

'Look at me, Sherlock', he said to the sad man before him.

'Sherlock, I love you. I've loved you since the beginning. I didn't think I stood a chance. You didn't seem to be interested in relationships and were clearly not interested in me. And when you…after you…When you jumped, I thought I would die. I was depressed, probably suicidal when I met Mary and she brought a normalcy to my life that I hadn't experienced since I left for Afghanistan. My life became normal again. A little boring but normal. And I thought I could live like that. But when I found out you were alive, I began to believe in miracles. I love you, Sherlock. And when you said you loved me, I thought I had died. I really did. Was I in some twilight zone where the beautiful Sherlock Holmes would love plain John Watson? Do you really love me, Sherlock? Because I'm beginning to get worried that you're not saying anything. So now wouldn't be a bad time for you to start talking.'

Wrecked gray held blue in a wet gaze and a pale face dipped to press soft lips to John's.

'I love you, John. I love you. I love you. I don't know what else to say. I love you.'

'I don't need to hear anything else, Sherlock. I love you and if you love me, I couldn't ask for more.'

Their lips parted and John pulled Sherlock's lower lip in and sucked on it lightly, nipping at the wet flesh and grinning when he felt a growl rumble in his lover's chest. His lover. Sherlock was his lover. The realisation that he could touch and kiss this magnificent man as he wanted drove him a little mad and he pulled Sherlock tighter and pushed his tongue into that beautiful mouth, tasting his lover, his friend and telling him with every lick, every suck, every collision of tongues that he loved him, he loved him and he would always love him.

Sherlock pulled away and grasped John's wrist to drag him to his bedroom. John found himself pushed back onto the bed and his lovely detective had draped his long body over John's and was dropping soft kisses on his eyes, cheeks and neck.

'Sherlock, Sherlock, I love you. My love. I want you so much. I've wanted you for so long.'

'I want to have sex with you tonight, John. Is it too soon?'

'No! No, it's not too soon. I've been waiting, my love. I want you to take me. Tonight. Please.'

'Jaawwn, oh god, I love you. I want you. I want to fuck you.'

'Yes, fuck me. Fuck me, make me yours', John panted and started unbuttoning his shirt. Sherlock pulled off John to undress himself and in a few minutes their clothes lay strewn on the floor by the bed.

'Uhhh', John gasped as Sherlock pressed his warm body to John's, his fingers ghosting over John's sensitive skin, tracing a path of electric sensation from his neck to his chest, slowing over his ribs and then pressing lightly into his underbelly, a long finger dipping into his navel, teasing and tormenting, drawing lower still and pausing at the top of the thatch of dark blond hair.

'Touch me, love. Touch me.'

A large, warm palm cupped John's tumescence and long fingers curled around the hard flesh and squeezed lightly.

'Oh! Oh! God! Sherlock, my love!' John cried, his hands bunching and twisting the sheets.

'Sherlock!' he shouted when his cock was suddenly enveloped in wet heat. He felt a hard but silky tongue play with his tip, dipping in and tasting in a blatantly filthy caress. The wicked tongue licked around and up his length, the friction of the slightly rough surface shooting jolts of delight through his nerves. His breath hitched when he felt himself sink further into Sherlock's mouth, all the way to his throat and his hand reached down to caress the tousled head that was giving him so much bliss. Sherlock's large hand covered his and pushed down on his head a few times. John understood and began to rock his hips in shallow jerks, fucking Sherlock's loose mouth.

Sherlock held still, letting John take his pleasure in his mouth and a few minutes later John came with a soft cry, spilling down Sherlock's throat. His lover's lips closed around his cock and began to suck his release out of him and lapped up every drop of semen, sucking John's softening flesh gently, relishing his soft cries whenever an unexpected spark of ecstasy shot through his sensitized flesh. When John finally stopped spurting, Sherlock pulled off with a squelching pop and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He collapsed between John's legs and laid his head on John's thigh, stroking his other thigh and gazed at John's flaccid cock, touching it and biting his lips when he felt it twitch under his fingers.

They lay like that for a long time, quiet, heavy breaths the only sound in the silent room, John's hand carding through Sherlock's hair as his head lay on his thigh, the fingers of his other hand weaving with Sherlock's in the most intimate touch he had ever exchanged with another human being. A touch of the utmost honesty and vulnerability. A touch that said everything that his words could not.

At long last Sherlock lifted himself to lie beside John. They turned to face each other and Sherlock's long fingers caressed John's face, tracing his eyebrows, his cheekbones, his jawline, his lips. Sherlock's fingers hovered over John's lips and gently pushed them apart. John opened his mouth and licked Sherlock's fingers. He saw his lover's eyes lose focus and when he began to bite his plump lower lip, John began to suck on Sherlock's fingers. Hard. Loud. Licking up their bony length and laving them with his saliva. Sherlock uttered a strangled cry, pulled his fingers out and turned John onto his stomach. He pushed his legs apart and ran his spit-slicked fingers down John's cleft and searched for his hole. As soon as he found it, he pressed inside with one long finger.

'Shhh… I won't hurt you. I won't hurt you, John', he soothed his lover and slowly added a second finger and then a third.

John bit the pillow trying to stifle his cries. He pushed his hips up to give Sherlock more access to his hole and the movement eased his pain and the long fingers began to move in and out of his passage in an alternating rhythm of slow and gentle and deep and then hard and fast and shallow. Over and over.

'I love you, John. I love you. I love you', Sherlock breathed against John's back. 'Can I take you? Are you mine?'

'I'm yours, Sherlock. Always. Take me, my love. I need you. I need you inside me.'

The fingers withdrew from John's orifice and as John turned to lie on his back, he heard the rip of a plastic wrapper. The snap of a lid and then a squelching, smacking sound told him that Sherlock had squeezed lube onto his fingers. He gasped when chilled fingertips caressed his hole and pressed inside again, lubing his passage and then withdrew to lube Sherlock's cock. His lover leaned over him and pushed his thighs apart. John saw Sherlock look down between their legs and felt hard flesh push at his entrance.

'Ready? I want to take you now, John.'

John nodded. 'I've been ready for four years, my love. Take me.' He held Sherlock's face in his hands and added '_Fuck_ me. Hard. Own me.'

His lover's head dipped to kiss his lips and then dropped to his chest and, without warning, John was split in two as Sherlock entered him in a smooth move, piercing him with his hard, thick cock, pushing further and further inside until John wondered just how long Sherlock was. Finally, he bottomed out and his balls slapped against John's arse and he let out a long breath against John's nipple. John's mouth fell open as he huffed out pained breaths, trying to force his body to relax around Sherlock's girth and the uncomfortable feeling of fullness, grateful that Sherlock was holding still. A few long moments passed before he felt his body unclench and accept his lover's invading flesh. He pressed his fingertips into Sherlock's scalp and his thighs tightened around Sherlock's hips. The other man understood and began to spear John, slow and deep, pulling out till just his tip was inside John and then pushing in smoothly, feeling the scrape of John's ring of muscle around his shaft, his fluttering walls trying to hold Sherlock's cock inside in much the same way that his eyes were holding onto Sherlock's, cradling his lover's soul inside his heart. And then Sherlock's eyes closed and he bucked into John as he came and came, his body convulsing and shivering against John's until he finally collapsed with a long moan born of unbearable pleasure.

They lay entwined in each other for a long time - two unlikely friends, two more unlikely lovers, two most unlikely soulmates, two idiots who might have lost their one chance for love were it not for the opportune intervention of a meddlesome sibling. Soft kisses, gentle touches and words of love were exchanged in the quiet night by two men who were still unable to believe that they had found their way back to each other. The prospect of nearly having lost each other still lurked under the surface and the desperation of their kisses spoke of a promise to never let go. Words were superfluous. Speech would only disturb the perfection of this moment, the perfect understanding between them.

When they were cleaned up, Sherlock pushed John's blond fringe back and kissed his forehead.

'I need to send a text.'

'OK. Actually, get me my phone. I need to send a text too.'

'Really?' Sherlock asked with a smile.

'Really', John answered with a soft smile of his own.

Sherlock handed John his phone and they quickly clacked out their messages. When they had finished, Sherlock placed the phones on the bedside table and turned to pull John into his arms. John fell asleep wrapped in Sherlock's body, his head resting on Sherlock's arm, his face pressed into a pale chest as he listened to the steady beat of his lover's heart. Sherlock fell asleep around John's body, his arm circling John's back, palm pressed to the skin between his shoulder blades, and his leg thrown over his lover's hips as he breathed into John's soft blond hair.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes was sitting at the writing desk in his living room when his phone chimed twice.

_Thank you, brother. – SH_

Thank you, Mycroft. - John

'Goldfish', he thought to himself, shaking his head with a slow, satisfied smile.

FIN


End file.
